


Equal and Opposite

by shoebox_addict



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Community: Do It With Style Events, Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, Dowling Years, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29222832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoebox_addict/pseuds/shoebox_addict
Summary: While working together at the Dowlings’ estate, Aziraphale and Crowley reach a breaking point.[Written for the GO Reverse Big Bang 2021]
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 79
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	Equal and Opposite

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the Reverse Big Bang, run by Do It With Style Events. Thanks so much to the mods for running it so smoothly! And many, many thanks to the awesome @mirayladraws, whose art inspired this fic and is featured within the story. I adore her work, go check her out on tumblr!

Aziraphale’s gardener disguise was absolutely absurd. Crowley couldn’t imagine how he’d been wearing it day in and day out for years. The bulky smock had to be far too warm for summer gardening, to say nothing of all that extra hair. From what Crowley remembered, sideburns were incredibly itchy in the summer. 

He looked absurd. There was really no reason for Crowley to be staring at him. Yet the fact remained that the late afternoon sun caught something in the angel’s eyes, something that couldn’t be obscured by ridiculous clothing or false teeth. As he turned to look at Crowley, those seafoam eyes lit up and Crowley had to force himself not to smile. 

“Thank goodness it’s Friday,” said Aziraphale, raking up the last bit of his hedge trimmings.

“Tough week?” Crowley asked, studying his painted fingernails. 

“A bit, yes.” Aziraphale paused and glanced around, making sure that no humans were watching. Then he snapped his fingers to disappear the trimmings and dragged his sleeve across his sweaty brow. “I caught Warlock making mudpies around the side of the house.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I remember. I’m the one who had to clean him up.”

“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale, with a grimace. “Oh, yes, I hadn’t thought of that.” 

“While you’re teaching him about all the lovely little creatures,” said Crowley. “Maybe toss in a word or two about keeping neat and tidy.”

“We’ll see,” said Aziraphale. “All that nonsense about cleanliness being next to godliness isn’t strictly true, my dear.”

“No, but it would make a certain nanny very happy, indeed.”

Aziraphale caught his eye and then quickly looked away. Crowley couldn’t help noticing the blush that crept up his already blotchy cheeks. “Well, perhaps I’ll make a point of mentioning something to him next week. Are you heading out soon, then?” 

“Not quite, no,” said Crowley. “Bedtime duties.” 

“Ah, yes, of course.” Aziraphale hitched up his trousers, clearly dawdling. His job was done, he was free to go, but Crowley knew he was working up the courage to ask the question he asked every week. The charade was as old and familiar as the cardigan Aziraphale would pull on that evening. But Crowley knew his role, so he simply waited. “Would you consider coming by the shop later? I could open us a bottle of something.” 

Crowley shrugged with practiced nonchalance. “Sure. A bottle of the good stuff?”

As though he wouldn’t happily drink a bottle of Waitrose own-brand “Italian” piss just to spend an evening in the warmth of the bookshop and Aziraphale’s company. 

Aziraphale drew himself up defensively, though the effect was dampened by the absence of his pocket watch and waistcoat. “My dear, I should hope you know by now that my collection comprises only ‘the good stuff.’”

“My mistake,” said Crowley, with a smirk.

Bedtime was a fairly painless ritual these days. Warlock listened to a bedtime story with minimal fuss, and Crowley could whisper vaguely evil entreaties in his ear as he drifted off. Warlock was put to bed, Crowley could say he’d done his duty, and another day came to a close. During the week, Crowley would trundle off to his bedroom in the Dowling house, peel off his pantyhose, and get a good night’s sleep. But at the weekend, he slithered out the front door and right into the Bentley to escape for a bit.

When they’d started this scheme, Aziraphale and Crowley had both intended to spend all their time at the Dowling house. But it quickly became apparent that their jobs were rather draining, and it was tiresome to pretend to be human all the time. A few excuses and minor miracles later, they had weekends at their disposal. For Crowley, there were only two things worth doing with his time off -- napping and spending time with Aziraphale. 

Once he was in the Bentley and a safe distance from the house, Crowley snapped his fingers to settle into his more familiar presentation. Sometimes he kept the Nanny look, but sometimes he needed a break. That body, and all the outfits that came with it, had steadily become a reminder that armageddon was on its way. Unless he and Aziraphale could do something to change it, the world was going to end up a boiling puddle of goo. He preferred to forget that at the weekend, just as many humans preferred to ignore their desk jobs when they weren’t actually at them. 

Soon (much sooner than it would’ve been for someone not driving the Bentley), Crowley pulled up outside the bookshop. He caught his own shaded gaze in the rearview mirror and frowned, eyebrows pulled downward. He probably shouldn’t be looking forward to this as much as he was, and he definitely couldn’t be seen to be enjoying himself. They could send him messages through the Bentley’s radio, who knew if they could see him through his own rearview mirror.

“How was he?” Aziraphale asked, as he poured them each a glass of Chateau Lafite.

“No problems,” said Crowley. He’d wedged himself into his favorite corner of the old sofa, fingers fiddling with the fringed edge of a throw blanket. 

“Of course not,” said Aziraphale, with a smile. “Because he’s an angelic little thing, really, isn’t he?”

Crowley cocked one eyebrow at him. “Remember the mudpies?”

“All children make mudpies.” Aziraphale handed him one glass and took the other to his desk, where he sat down heavily in his old chair. “It’s not necessarily a sign of evil.” 

“Just the beginning.” 

“That remains to be seen,” said Aziraphale. “Anyway, I’m pleased with how gentle he’s been to the animals around the garden. We spotted a fox last week, and he didn’t chase after it or anything.” 

“Maybe he was plotting its demise from afar,” said Crowley, with a wide grin.

Aziraphale _harrumphed_ and drank deeply from his glass. “Say what you like, but I really do think he’s taking my teachings to heart.”

“And I think the same thing.” Crowley shrugged. “We’ll meet in the middle.” 

“Only,” Aziraphale began, staring into the deep red of his wine. “Well, what if he turned out more good than anything? Would that be so bad?”

Crowley paused with his wine glass halfway to his lips. “S’not exactly the point. S’not what we agreed on.”

“Yes, but --” Aziraphale set his wine glass on the desk and started twisting his fingers together. “It would be a better outcome, wouldn’t it?”

“What makes you think that?” said Crowley, staring from behind his dark glasses.

“It’s what I believe, not what I think,” said Aziraphale. Crowley recognized that self-righteous tone from many discussions had here in this very spot. “I _believe_ the Almighty should prevail.”

“Right. Sure,” said Crowley, waving his hand dismissively. “But will that save the world? I thought we agreed we wanted to save the world.”

“Of course, but I don’t believe the Almighty would actually destroy Her creation.”

Crowley folded forward to set his glass on the carpet, then dragged both hands down his face. “You’re living in a fantasy world, angel. What’s Gabriel said to you?”

Aziraphale scoffed. “This has nothing to do with Gabriel. I just thought, perhaps there’s another way. If I really do succeed in thwarting you, perhaps young Warlock could entirely reject his parentage, his so-called destiny. Why, there wouldn’t be a need for any war without an Antichrist.” 

“You think the archangels will go along with that, then?”

“They’re not the highest authority in Heaven,” said Aziraphale, a look of such hope on his face that Crowley felt his heart clench. Aziraphale stared at him just a moment too long, and then shook his head. “Anyway, I’ve decided on my own path, and I won’t let you tempt me again.” 

Crowley spluttered his way through a series of unconnected consonants. “I didn’t _tempt_ you into anything. I thought we were on the same page. We shook on it!”

Aziraphale looked at him, caught between anger and sadness. “How could we _possibly_ be on the same page?”

The words stung, but Crowley didn’t feel like refuting them. He didn’t feel like trying to convince Aziraphale of their partnership, not again. “Right. Of course. Dunno what I was thinking.”

A long, deafening silence stretched between them. Crowley picked up his glass and drained it in one massive gulp of very expensive wine. He glanced at Aziraphale and was surprised to find the angel staring at him in an arrestingly desperate way. Crowley silently gave thanks for his dark glasses; he was sure Aziraphale would wipe that look off his face if he knew it could be seen. 

Eventually the awkwardness became too much for Aziraphale’s adopted British sensibilities. He cleared his throat, “Should I freshen your glass?”

Crowley took a deep breath. “No, I think I should go.” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, clearly disappointed. “Must you?” 

“Yeah,” said Crowley. He unfolded himself from the sofa and handed his glass to Aziraphale, careful not to let their hands touch. “We’re not on the same page. Why am I even here?” 

It was a low blow, Crowley knew, and it called too much attention to how personal their association had become over the past six thousand years. But Armageddon was inching ever closer, and Crowley wasn’t sure how much longer he could let Aziraphale have his cake and eat it -- sometimes literally.

Still, he stood by the sofa a bit too long, feeling more than a bit stupid, waiting for Aziraphale to say something that might make him stay. But the angel remained silent, chewing his own lips and twisting the ring on his little finger. 

“Right,” said Crowley, eventually. “See you Monday.” 

The door of the bookshop slammed behind him, and Crowley strode toward the Bentley. He kept his head down, gaze trained on the pavement beneath his boots. He didn’t want to see whether Aziraphale was stood at the window, he didn’t want to be taunted by the warm glow emanating from the shop. All he wanted was to sleep, so he pressed the pedal to the floor and was at his flat in record time. 

Beneath his duvet, Crowley pressed his face into the plush of his pillow, as though that might help push the evening from his brain. At some point, he wasn’t sure when, the cyclone of his thoughts settled down enough for him to drift off.

* * * * * * * *

To say that Crowley was not keen to see Aziraphale on Monday morning would be a massive understatement. He’d spent several hours pacing around his flat, wondering if he could call off sick and somehow prevent Aziraphale from noticing his absence. Eventually he decided that was stupid. It was what he desperately wanted to do, but it was also stupid. So he forced himself downstairs and into his car, where he settled back into his role as Nanny.

All the way to the Dowling estate, Crowley turned their argument over in his mind. It was the first moment he’d had to think it through, having slept his way through the weekend. How long had Aziraphale been thinking of their project in this way? How long had he been scheming on his own to tip Warlock incrementally toward Heaven? More importantly, what had made him stray from their original agreement? Something about his change of heart felt off, and Crowley was sure that someone in a well-tailored suit was behind it. He would have to do something, fix it somehow, but for now he had a different job to do.

Mrs. Dowling was at the breakfast table with a coffee mug and a plate bearing a half-eaten muffin. She was staring down at her phone, thumb idly scrolling through what Crowley assumed was either a chain of catty texts or an article about decorative baskets. Crowlely cleared his throat as he passed by the dining room -- he’d learned to make himself known or Mrs. Dowling simply wouldn’t notice he’d arrived.

“Good morning,” she said, without looking up from her phone. “Good weekend?”

“Oh, yes. Played bridge with Gertie and Eunice, it was a scream,” Crowley replied. He’d also learned that Mrs. Dowling was almost never actually listening, unless Crowley happened to be talking about her son. He’d been slowly cultivating a rich social life for Nanny. 

“Glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Dowling. She did look up now, nodding to Crowley with a perfunctory smile. “Warlock is upstairs.” 

“Splendid, I’ll go up now.” 

In his room, Warlock was staring out the window at something, and Crowley hoped that he was doing so in a creepy manner. For the Antichrist, the boy had a startling lack of unsettling habits. He kicked himself for not seeing this sooner; it clearly meant that Aziraphale was doing his job a little too well. 

“What are you up to, my little menace?” said Crowley, rapping gently on the doorframe. 

Warlock spun around and lit up when he saw Nanny standing there. “I’m watching the gardener. He spends so much time just walking around. Shouldn’t he be gardening?”

“Indeed, he should.” Crowley came to stand beside Warlock. Sure enough, there was Aziraphale, pottering around the hedges and smiling beatifically at any creature he came across. As if on some divine cue, a bird landed on Aziraphale’s shoulder just then. Crowley rolled his eyes. 

“Let’s leave Brother Francis to his work, mangling the garden,” said Crowley, steering Warlock away from the window. “Wouldn’t you like to hear a story? Something with a lake of fire?” 

Warlock sighed dramatically and plopped down on his bed. “I’m tired of those stories. Can we go to the garden?”

“Not a good idea,” said Crowley. “We shouldn’t bother Brother Francis.” 

“Brother Francis says I’m not a bother,” said Warlock. “He likes talking to me about animals.” 

“I could talk to you about animals,” said Crowley, quickly. Looking after a six-year-old child entailed so much more quick thinking than he would’ve expected. “Would you like to hear about a very large dog with glowing, red eyes? That story might come in handy someday.” 

“Nah.” Warlock shook his head. “I just wanna see Brother Francis.” 

“Of course you do.” With a sigh of his own, Crowley held out his hand for Warlock to take. “Come on, then. Let’s have a quick visit, and then we’ll find something else to do.” 

As Warlock led him downstairs, Crowley revised his earlier musings regarding the boy’s talent for evil. Clearly he had a knack for getting into someone’s head and engineering the perfect way to make them uncomfortable. It was creative, he had to admit, and in that way the boy was a demon after his own heart. He filed this all away for his next report and focused on calming himself down. Dread settled into his stomach as they approached the hedgerows, wondering how Aziraphale would greet him after their argument. 

“Hi, Brother Francis!” said Warlock, relinquishing Crowley’s hand to hurry up to Aziraphale. The angel smiled widely at him, putting all of those ridiculous teeth on display. 

“Hello, young Warlock. And how are you on this fine morning?” 

“Good,” said Warlock, grinning right back.

“Ah, you should always say you’re doing _well_ , m’boy,” Aziraphale corrected.

“Is grammar next to godliness, then?” said Crowley, strolling up behind Warlock. At least he’d managed to start the conversation on his own terms. 

Aziraphale stared at him disapprovingly, and he looked so much like his regular self that Crowley barely noticed the absurd disguise. It was comforting and off-putting all at once, to see him again but to be on the receiving end of that particular expression. 

“Good morning, Nanny,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley swore he felt a chill wind whip past them. 

“Yup, morning,” he replied, trying his best for nonchalance.

Warlock swiveled his head, staring at each of them in turn, and then settled on Aziraphale. “Are you and Nanny friends?”

Aziraphale paused, clearly torn between their current stalemate and his desire to be polite to the young boy. “I suppose so, yes.” 

“You _suppose_?” said Warlock. “How come you don’t know?”

That brought Aziraphale up short, and if things had been normal, Crowley would have chimed in to help him out of this one. But he kept mum, waiting to see what Aziraphale would say. “Well, it’s complicated. Would you like to see some ducks? I think I found some in the pond at the back of your garden.”

Crowley silently applauded while concentrating on keeping his expression neutral. Distraction was a great technique, and Warlock happened to enjoy ducks as much as he and Aziraphale did. But it seemed that Warlock was not to be deterred this time, not even by the promise of ducks. Clearly the boy’s talent lay in making people squirm; perhaps he’d be some sort of interrogator for Hell once the world ended. The thought made Crowley feel ill. 

“Why is it complicated?” Warlock asked, ever so innocently. 

“I’m afraid the story is too long to tell,” said Aziraphale. “Isn’t that right, Nanny?” 

“Oh, I dunno,” said Crowley, shrugging his shoulders. “Might be a good story for Warlock to hear. You weren’t interested in my story about a big dog, eh? Would you like to hear Brother Francis’ story?” 

“Yeah!” said Warlock. “I wanna hear the complicated story.” 

“Ah, well now, I’m afraid I simply don’t have time,” said Aziraphale. He directed a fairly lethal sneer at Crowley over Warlock’s head, pivoting flawlessly into a smile as he looked down at the boy again. “I’ve got an awful lot of gardening to do, you see.” 

“I don’t think you do,” said Warlock. “I saw you from the window, you were just walking around.” 

Aziraphale went red, and now Crowley did feel a bit sorry for him. No one wanted to be caught slacking off by a child, least of all the Antichrist. But he remained resolute, unwilling to help the angel out of his predicament. Frankly, he was a bit curious as to how he might tell their story to Warlock.

“Yes, I was making my morning rounds,” Aziraphale explained. “But there really is rather a lot to do. This is a very big garden, you know. I thought...well, I thought I might trim the rosebushes.” 

“Trim the --!” Crowley clamped his mouth shut, annoyed at himself for rising to such obvious bait.

“Problem?” said Aziraphale, smiling angelically in his direction. 

“What, me? Nah,” said Crowley, crossing his arms and slouching a bit. “I couldn’t care less what you do with the rosebushes.” 

“Really? The suggestion seemed to upset you just now.” 

“Why would I be upset?” 

“I’m not sure.” 

“Might have something to do with your complete lack of technique.” 

“I was only doing what the book told me.” 

“What were you reading? A guide to killing rosebushes?”

“It was a perfectly good gardening guide. Perhaps we have a difference of opinion.”

“There’s no room for opinion in gardening.”

It did not escape Crowley’s notice that Warlock was watching them keenly. He had half a mind to drag the boy back upstairs and devise some horribly tedious task for him. But it wasn’t Warlock’s fault, really. Aziraphale was a bastard of an angel, and Crowley should’ve known he’d stoop to this -- using the rosebushes against him. He’d seen his trimming technique several months back, and it had nearly stopped his heart. So he found himself faced with two choices -- leave now and doom the roses to a ghastly fate, or rescue the roses and doom himself to the company of an insufferable angel. 

“You...maybe I should come along,” Crowley said, at last. “You know, for the sake of the roses.”

At first, Aziraphale said nothing, his expression unreadable. Then his eyes sparkled familiarly and he nodded. “Certainly.” 

Warlock squinted at him in the late morning sun and then turned to look up Crowley. “I think you _are_ friends.” 

Crowley opened his mouth to refute it, just like Aziraphale had all those times before. But then he noticed Aziraphale staring at him, those bright eyes shining past the gardener persona and straight into the hollow of Crowley’s chest. He knew that expression, the hopeful plea Aziraphale employed whenever he wanted something but was too afraid to ask. Now he cocked his head to one side, as if to say, _for the boy’s sake, we can pretend to be friends._ But it wasn’t just for Warlock, Crowley knew enough to know that. 

With a sigh, Crowley nodded to him. “I guess we are, then.” 

Aziraphale smiled. “Come along, Nanny. Let’s see to those roses.”

* * * * * * * *

“Bees?”

“Yes, why not.” 

“Where would you even keep them?”

“I don’t know, I hadn’t thought that far. The roof, perhaps?” 

“The _roof_?”

“Yes, the roof. Lots of people are getting into urban gardening these days, and oftentimes the only space they can find for it is the roof. I’m surprised you haven’t thought to take your jungle to the roof.” 

“That’s…actually a good idea. Anyway. Why bees?” 

“They’re such keen little workers. I think it would be fun to watch them, you know.”

“And honey, of course.” 

“Oh, yes, naturally, the honey.” 

Crowley leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, and watched Aziraphale from behind his dark glasses. Sometimes, on a Friday afternoon, they would find some time to have tea in the garden. He wouldn’t have expected them to continue the practice that week, not after their argument. But something thawed over the rosebushes, as Aziraphale relented and let him help with the trimming, and Warlock laughed about his nanny being better at gardening than the gardener. Now they were sitting at a small, wrought-iron table laden with all the fixings for tea and finger sandwiches. It was a beautiful summer afternoon, and Crowley was plotting how he might bring up the nature of their work at the Dowlings’. 

“You must like bees, what with the...the plants,” said Aziraphale. “Why, if I were to get myself some bees, perhaps we could join forces. My bees could pollinate your flowers.”

Crowley choked on a sip of tea and coughed a few times to clear his throat. “Er, yeah. Pollination.” 

Aziraphale frowned at him and then looked away, perhaps realizing the implications behind his seemingly benign words. He took another finger sandwich. 

“Good week?” said Crowley, steering them away from bees. “Warlock said something about slugs.” 

“Yes, we found some around the delphiniums. He was rather curious about them, so we spent some time observing their path through the grass. It was a good opportunity to remind him that all animals, no matter how small or slimy, are our friends.” 

“Mm,” said Crowley. “Well, I made sure to remind him where he is in the pecking order, vis a vis slugs. May have implied a connection between slugs and the world itself.” 

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. “Well, I think my message holds rather more weight.” 

“S’not about that,” said Crowley. He leaned forward conspiratorially. “We’re balancing each other out, angel. It’s always been that way, and it’ll be that way whether you try harder or not.” 

“You can’t know that,” said Aziraphale, taking a prim bite of his sandwich. “Please, I’d rather not talk about this just now. Can’t we return to the bees?” 

“Yeah,” said Crowley, sitting back again. “Right. The bees.” 

But that line of conversation appeared to have dried up. Aziraphale finished his sandwich, and then another, and neither of them said anything more about the bees. Eventually Aziraphale stood up, brushing the crumbs from his lap and glancing back toward the house. 

“I suppose I should be heading out now,” he said. “Good luck with bedtime.” 

“Yup. Sure it’ll be fine.” 

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, and then he turned to leave. Panic seized Crowley’s stomach; he didn’t want him to leave, he wanted to try again with the bees. Surely he had something, anything to say about bees. When he opened his mouth to try and continue the conversation, something rather more embarrassing emerged. 

“So, er. Bookshop?” 

Crowley hated the sound of his own voice. He hated that he’d been the one to bring it up, that he’d had to be the one. He’d apparently annoyed Aziraphale so much that he’d abandoned the old song-and-dance. But Crowley couldn’t leave the steps unfinished, he had to at least ask. It was a mistake, though, and he knew it as soon as Aziraphale turned to him again, the answer already written all over his face. 

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, perhaps not. Only...I’m afraid we’d end up shouting at each other again.”

Though he’d known it would be a ‘no,’ Crowley still shattered when he heard the refusal. He hoped to Hell it didn’t show on his face, hoped that the dark glasses helped conceal it somehow. Perhaps, he thought, he would’ve had a chance if he hadn’t been stupid enough to bring it all up again when they were getting along. The damage was done, it seemed, and now he’d have to return to his flat after he finished bedtime. 

“Of course,” he said, grateful that his voice didn’t break. “You’re right.” 

Aziraphale visibly faltered, eyebrows drawn together. “I don’t mean to -- that is, I don’t wish to argue with you.” 

“Perfectly fine,” said Crowley. He stood up and brushed at his skirt, though there were no crumbs there. Aziraphale was always the one to eat the finger sandwiches. “I understand.” 

No matter how fervently Crowley wished Aziraphale would leave and let him process this moment alone, Aziraphale still stood there staring at him. “I am sorry, that we’ve reached this impasse. I...I wish it weren’t this way. But we’re simply on opposite sides, you know that.” 

“Yep,” said Crowley. “You’ll never let me forget it.” 

“Yes, well --” Aziraphale stopped and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’ll see you on Monday.” 

Then, at last, he was gone. Crowley watched him trundle back toward the house, knew that he’d stop inside to pay his respects to Mrs. Dowling before leaving. Crowley stamped his heels into the ground, hard enough to splinter the earth. He nearly kicked over the table, upset their sham of an afternoon tea, but he stopped short with a sigh. He waited twenty minutes, giving Aziraphale plenty of time to leave, and then started back toward the house.

* * * * * * * *

Crowley slept his way through the weekend, stuck in a terrible mood. It took a rather long time for him to wake up on Monday morning, and by the time he did his alarm was blaring loud, gong-like noises at him. After snapping the alarm quiet, he stared up at the ceiling and wondered if this was how it would be with Aziraphale going forward. He’d been expecting their time at the Dowlings’ to be a rare moment of clear cooperation for them. Their purposes aligned, they’d discussed it all as plainly as they could manage, and yet still something had come between them. Crowley should’ve known better -- something would always come between them.

When he arrived at the Dowlings’ manor later that morning, he was expecting (or perhaps hoping for) a repeat of the week before. He said hello to Mrs. Dowling and made his way upstairs, but Warlock wasn’t looking out the window this time. That morning, he was lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, much like Crowley had done hours before. Crowley rapped on the door and Warlock gave him a lackluster wave. 

“What’s got you down, love?” said Crowley, coming to sit at the end of Warlock’s bed.

“Brother Francis isn’t here today,” said Warlock. “Mom says he’s ill.” 

Struck dumb by this news, Crowley’s mind went whirling in several directions at once. His first thought was that Aziraphale had called off sick because of him, because they were in a strange position -- even stranger than usual. But the angel had brushed off their argument easily enough, inviting Crowley to try his hand at the rosebushes. The words they’d exchanged on Friday had been far less harsh than their argument at the bookshop, surely they could’ve been erased just as smoothly. 

But if Aziraphale wasn’t avoiding the Dowlings’ place because of Crowley, what explanation did that leave? Perhaps something had happened to him, and he was lying injured somewhere in his bookshop. Perhaps he was trapped in Heaven, unable to get back, and one of those awful archangel wankers had called in on his behalf. 

“Do you know if Brother Francis called your mum?” Crowley asked. 

Warlock shrugged his skinny little shoulders. “Dunno. She just said he won’t be here today.” 

“What a shame,” said Crowley, trying his best to appear calm. “Well. There’s no reason to let the garden wane in his absence, is there? Shall we see what we can get up to?” 

That perked Warlock up at least, even if it did nothing to allay Crowley’s fears. There wasn’t much to be done in the garden, so Crowley simply led Warlock along the hedgerows, pointing out flowers along the way. He knew enough about plants to put his mouth on auto-pilot while he fretted about where Aziraphale might be. Though he paused at the rosebushes, staring at their velvet blooms until Warlock tugged on his sleeve. 

Later that evening, after Warlock had been put to bed, Crowley found Mrs. Dowling in the den. She was watching an American program on the telly, the blue light illuminating the rather pretty planes of her face. When Crowley knocked at the door, she looked up in surprise and lowered the volume.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, half-rising from the sofa.

“No, Warlock’s just fallen asleep,” said Crowley. He kept a miracle in his back pocket as he said the next words, ready if he needed to smooth the way. “But I’m afraid I have an appointment this evening. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but it came up rather quickly.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” said Mrs. Dowling, clearly relieved that it was nothing to do with Warlock. “You’ll be back tomorrow?” 

“Certainly,” said Crowley, figuring that he could find more time if he needed it. 

Mrs. Dowling nodded and Crowley was out of the house as fast as his legs could carry him. Figuring the bookshop was the best starting place, he sped back to London, weaving between cars and lorries on the motorway. Dread filled his stomach as he came up Aziraphale’s street, unsure of what he would do if he found the bookshop dark and empty. But the lights were on, flooding the street with their familiar golden warmth, and he could sense Aziraphale inside.

Crowley sat in the Bentley for a moment, shifting into his usual corporation and giving his useless heartbeat a chance to slow. If Aziraphale was perfectly fine, sat inside with a very large tome in front of him, Crowley was going to be very upset indeed. Once he’d calmed down, he climbed out of the Bentley and strode up to the shop’s front door.

There were no archangels inside, and no sign of mischief, but Crowley could hear Schubert playing very softly in the back room. He crept toward the music, peering carefully through the shop for anything amiss. When he spotted Aziraphale at his desk, Crowley nearly jumped out of his skin. The angel was so still and silent that he might have been another piece of furniture. Crowley had only ever seen him like this after he’d returned from a briefing in Heaven. So, he thought, at least that solved the mystery of Aziraphale’s absence. 

“Angel --” 

“Oh!” cried Aziraphale. He turned, one hand clutching at his chest. “My goodness, Crowley. You scared me half to death.”

“Me? What about you? Sitting there like a bleeding statue.” 

Aziraphale frowned at him. “What? Oh, yes. Yes, I’m afraid I’ve been rather tired all day.”

“That why you weren’t at the Dowlings’?”

“Mm,” said Aziraphale, with a nod. He was slumped a bit in his chair, something he only ever did when he was soused. “I do hope you didn’t come here to argue, my dear.” 

“What? No, I was just worr--,” Crowley cut himself off with a cough, hoping that Aziraphale was too tired to have heard the slip-up. “Just wondering where you were. Thought I should come by.” 

“Ah. Well, yes. That’s fine, then.” 

Crowley sat down on the old sofa and watched Aziraphale with some concern. He was never sure what to do in this situation. What he _wanted_ to do was ask Aziraphale what the feathery pricks had put him through, how they’d grilled him, whether they’d humiliated him in some way. But he knew Aziraphale would brush those questions off, insisting that it was only a routine briefing. Crowley was fairly certain that was the problem, that the grilling and humiliation were commonplace at this point. 

“Everything, er,” he began, as Aziraphale settled his elbow on his desk and his chin in his hand. “Everything all right up there? Any questions about the Antichrist?”

“Hmm?” said Aziraphale. “Everything is...tickety-boo.”

“That’s good. I s’pose.” 

“Only it isn’t, actually,” Aziraphale continued. He stared at Crowley, his normally bright eyes a bit dimmed with fatigue. “I’m afraid it’s been made perfectly clear to me that I’m pointless.” 

Crowley felt the anger roll up in him and screamed a few pointed words inside his own head. Then he shook his head, “S’not true, don’t listen to them.” 

“No, no. I do believe they’re correct,” said Aziraphale. “I...I don’t make much of a difference here, squirreled away with my books. And you said it yourself, we’re cancelling each other out, just like always.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean...you know more about Earth than any of those wankers.” Crowley ignored the look Aziraphale gave him and pressed on. “D’you think any of them would know what to do with the Antichrist?”

Aziraphale sighed. “My dear, _I_ don’t know what to do with the Antichrist.” 

“Sure you do. You’re telling him to be friends with the slugs. We may cancel each other out but, you know, he needs a counterpoint. He needs both, he...he needs you.” 

Aziraphale brightened, brimming with a gratitude that Crowley was all too familiar with. It hearkened back to the walls of Eden, when Crowley had said he couldn’t possibly do the wrong thing. Crowley had meant it as a sort of joke, but it had clearly been something Aziraphale needed to hear. This time there was nothing to joke about -- Crowley did think that Warlock needed Aziraphale, and not just for their plan to normalize him.

“He was disappointed, you know, that he couldn’t visit you in the garden today,” said Crowley. “We took a walk through the hedges, but it wasn’t the same.”

“I’m sure you were able to provide more information on the greenery.” 

“Maybe so. But something was missing.” 

Aziraphale smiled at him. “Someone mangling the rosebushes?” 

“Must’ve been it.” 

“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps we need to be there for him in a third way, in a _human_ way. Just as he requires angelic and demonic influences in equal parts, he also requires a nanny and a gardener.”

“There you go,” said Crowley. “You’re a semi-modern, multi-tasking angel. You can mix in some child-rearing with your thwarting, can’t you?” 

“I suppose I can.” Aziraphale wiggled his shoulders a bit, though he was still far more deflated than normal. He tried and failed to stifle a yawn, and then, “Oh, dear. Would you...would you care for something to drink? Terribly impolite of me not to offer.”

“Stay there, I’ll get it.” 

In the time it took for Crowley to walk to the back room, choose a suitable wine, and walk back, Aziraphale lost the battle with his fatigue. Crowley stopped dead when he noticed the angel slumped onto his desk, head cradled on his folded arms. Though he’d seen him this tired before, he’d never actually seen him sleep. Aziraphale had always insisted that he didn’t sleep, so Crowley assumed that he recharged in some other way. To see him now, with his eyes closed and his breath slowed, was such a rare and lovely sight. 

Crowley set the bottle of wine down on the floor and stepped lightly to the sofa, trying not to make any noise. With the blue, fringed throw in hand, he came up behind Aziraphale and gently draped it over his shoulders. Aziraphale didn’t stir, and it made Crowley’s chest ache to think of how tired he must be. He stood there for a moment, wishing he could make him more comfortable. It would be too weird, surely, to move him to the sofa. Even if he just used a miracle, Aziraphale might consider it too much of an intrusion. He should leave now, that would be best. 

But he couldn’t seem to make his feet move. Aziraphale didn’t need a guardian, he _was_ a guardian. And yet he looked so vulnerable there, sleeping at his desk. Crowley lifted his glasses to press his hands against his eyes. He felt an absurd longing to touch Aziraphale’s hair, to kiss his forehead, to let him know somehow that he was good enough. But that was ridiculous, it was all ridiculous, and he needed to leave. 

Finally, with a growl of frustration, Crowley turned away and strode back toward the door. Just before he left, he snapped his fingers, and a cup of cocoa appeared on Aziraphale’s desk. It would stay warm all night, and it wouldn’t budge if an angelic elbow accidentally nudged against it. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

[](https://ibb.co/XYmRvrN)   


* * * * * * * *

The next morning, Mrs. Dowling asked about Nanny’s appointment, and Crowley said everything went well, adopting that tone humans used to convey that it was a private matter. Mrs. Dowling smiled distractedly and said that Warlock had already had his breakfast and was in the garden with Brother Francis.

There was a chill in the air, and dew still hung on the grass as Crowley made his way to the garden. But the sun was making itself known, and it might even be a warm summer day by the time noon rolled around. Though he couldn’t see Aziraphale and Warlock anywhere, Crowley soon heard their voices behind some of the taller hedges, near the rosebushes. 

“Are you feeling better?” Warlock asked. 

“Oh, yes, much,” Aziraphale replied. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here yesterday.”

“That’s okay. Nanny wasn’t here this morning. Usually I see her in the morning.” 

“I’m afraid I must apologize for that as well,” said Aziraphale. “You see, Nanny came to see me last night, to make sure that I was all right.” 

Warlock gasped as though he’d just been told there was a spaceship waiting to zoom him off to Mars. “I _knew_ you were friends.” 

Aziraphale chuckled softly, and Crowley could picture the way his eyes must be twinkling. “Well, I suppose we are.” 

“Did Nanny take care of you?” 

A pause, and Crowley dearly wished he could see the expression on Aziraphale’s face. Finally, he said, “She did, she took very good care of me. And now I’m right as rain, so don’t you worry.” 

There was something in the way Aziraphale said this, something in his tone that told Crowley he wasn’t simply mollifying Warlock. This wasn’t a pat response, meant to make the question go away. No, he said it with sincerity and a genuine appreciation that Crowley very much doubted Aziraphale would have shown if he knew Crowley could hear. And that was Crowley’s cue to stop eavesdropping, so he straightened his skirt and stepped out from behind the hedge. 

“Good morning, Warlock. How are we today?”

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! ♥
> 
> I'm @truncated-symphony on tumblr, and make sure you check out @mirayladraws too!


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